The Trade Hub
In the pale hush of twilight, a boy walked along the semi-frosted stone walkway, his arms bundled with firewood heavier than himself. Around him, half-assembled stalls stood silent and unprepared. Merchants moved sluggishly through the chill, bundled in thick coats as they swept and scooped snow from their stands—clearing paths in preparation for vending.
Oddly, the boy, dressed in plain work clothes far too thin and lighter for winter, but pressed on without complaint.
Along the street, braziers stood before each stall—some already blazing, others flickering weakly. Faint waves of warmth drifted through the air, carrying with them the gentle scent of burning wood that mingled with haze and crisp snow.
The boy's eyes caught the faint glow of a brazier farther down the walkway beside an idle stall. Then, as he looked up, the first golden rays of sunlight crested over the ramparts—spilling gently across the city and washing it in soft, waking light.
He paused for a moment, watching in quiet awe as the sunlight pierced through the lingering air of blueish gray.
A small smile curved his lips—it was a great sign, a good beginning.
Satisfied, he adjusted the firewood in his arms and pressed on toward his goal.
At last, he reached the stall beside a lonely brazier, its embers faint and struggling. Turning the corner, he spotted a girl seated atop of a small empty cage, her cheeks puffed as she blew warm breath into her gloved hands, yawning with boredom.
"Good morning, sister," the boy said with a smile, his voice still soft.
"Hmmm?" She glanced up, half-lidded and drowsy. "Morning…"
He nodded and knelt beside the brazier, stacking the firewood carefully and feeding the flames one wood at a time. Soon, the weak orange glow stirred back to life, flickering with renewed warmth.
"Morning, Logan!" called a man's voice from across the street. The man arrived shortly after him, carrying three crates stacked in his arms before setting them down near his stall.
Logan turned with a smile. "Morning, sir!"
"Good morning!" another man called as he passed them, and they both returned the greeting.
His wooden wheels creaked and murmured over the cobblestones, leaving faint grooves in the frost as he went.
Logan's gaze wandered across the street and over the wide, waking market.
More figures had begun to appear—merchants wrapped in layered cloaks and coat, their breath trailing in the cold air as they tugged open stall covers and sorted their wares beneath the awaking morning light. From every direction came soft voices—friendly greetings, laughter, and the shuffle of boots—blending together in a gentle harmony that filled the chill air with warmth and peace.
Just as Logan turned back to his worked, a voice called out behind him.
"Logan! Come help me with this!"
He spun around to see his mother struggling with a cart halfway to the stall. Without hesitation, he hurried over—and quickly spotted the problem. The wheel had broken, its spokes snapped and the rim warped, the iron band bent out of shape.
"Ah… leave it," his mother sighed, brushing her hair from her face. "Just carry the goods to the stall, will you?"
"Yes, Mother," Logan replied, scratching his head before rolling up his sleeves.
He pulled away the white sheet covering the cart. Beneath it, rows of small cages quivered and chimed—each holding a plump, colourful-feathered bird, their chests puffed against the chill.
Bawks… Bawks… Bawks…
As the sun's warmth brushed their soft feathers, clucking rose with it, mingling with the markets waking hum.
Logan stared long at the quail.
"Don't dally, boy—get to work!" His mother stood with one hand on her hip, her tone sharp but tender.
Logan chuckled softly and set to work without protest.
He worked with quiet diligence, stacking the cages onto the stall as display, then setting the remaining ones behind it and covering them with a blanket when he was done.
Nearby, his little sister fed dry wood into the brazier as she watched her mother and brother work, each log hissing as frost melted away and the fire crackled to life.
Satisfied with her work, she leaned against the stone balcony rail, gloved hands toying with a small wooden stick she tossed and caught again, smiling as she hummed softly to herself, lost in her own quiet world.
Their mother, meanwhile, bent over her wares, checking each crate and cloth-covered bundle with care.
Finally, she lifted a wooden placard and fastened it to the front of their stall. The letters, etched in careful strokes, read.
Ley Loon Ashplume Quail.
They were the Ley Loon family—a humble trio of common folk living quietly near the bustling heart of Limelight trade avenue.
A hardworking mother, Jun Ley Loon; her son, Logan; and her daughter, Lilly—each doing their part to keep their small family trade alive by selling lawn bird.
"Finally done…" their mother exhaled, wiping her hands on her apron before turning to her children.
"Now comes the waiting." She clapped her hands once. "Logan—you can go now, if you want."
Logan blinked in surprised. "Really? You don't want me to watch the stall?"
"Yes, yes, you can go," she said, waving him off like a pesky dog. "Lilly will take care of it."
"No?! Me?!" Lilly jolted upright at the sound of her name, the wooden stick flying from her hands as she yelped. "But I never—"
"You will learn!" her mother declared, narrowing her eyes like a hawk.
Lilly froze, then drooped in defeat. "...Yes, Mom."
A beat later, she spun toward her brother and hissed, "Leave! Leaveeeee! Before mother changes her mind!"
Logan laughed, ruffling her hair into a messy nest. "Oh, no, not you too, Lilly. Don't worry—it won't be long, right, Mother?"
Their mother sighed, staring into the skies like someone longing for the days when everything had felt perfect. "...I hope so, Logan. I truly hope so."
Clank Clank Clank
Then it came—faint at first, but unmistakable.
Clank Clank Clank Clank
The steady rhythm of metal boots striking against stone echoed through the awakening market, alerting everyone to their presence.
Logan paused mid-motion, head lifting. Lilly froze too, her wooden stick dangling from her fingers.
Together, they leaned toward the edge of the stall, peering down to alley, where the noise came from.
They saw them—figures draped in white, their plated armour clinking with each step. Though their pace was calm, purpose weighed in every stride, rousing the sleepy market from its hush.
Merchants instinctively stepped aside, parting like reeds before the tide. None dared to stand in their path.
The group drew closer—straight toward their Ley Loon Ashplume Quail stall.
Logans chest tightened as he was worried of something bad about to happen.
Without thinking, he reached out and pulled his sister close, shielding her behind his arm.
Then, a firm hand gripped his shoulder—his mothers. She stepped forward, placing herself before them, one arm spread protectively across both children. Her gaze fixed on the approaching strangers, unwavering.
The three stood in silence, bracing for the inevitable as the figures drew nearer.
But to their surprise, the visitors did not stop at their stall.
Instead, they walked right past it—coming to a halt at the stone fence just behind. Their attention drifted outward, drawn to the sight beyond.
There, past the weathered stones fence, the market unfurled before them—its bustling heart spread out like a vast amphitheatre carved into the very stone and wall of the city.
The Trade Central of Limelight Cities.
From where they stood, it became clear that they were at the highest floor of a vast concave wall, the uppermost rim of the trade district.
The terraces curved inward like colossal stone steps, its edges crowded with all manner of stalls with bright colour cover awnings and ensnare eyes that glimpse upon its.
Flickering braziers cast warm streaks of orange and gold over the whirl of colour and motion below. Merchants shouted greetings across the floor, workers hurried between stalls with crates stacked to their chins, and the rhythmic clatter of tools echoed from all directions.
Carved directly into the surrounding stone walls were shopfronts and store-buildings, their entrances chiselled deep into the rock. A tangle of metal pipes ran along the walls—some thick and bolted in place, others thin and crooked, jutting out at odd angles like exposed roots.
Steam puffed from several of them in rhythmic bursts, fogging the air with warm mist, while a few sputtered thin sprays of water that glittered briefly before splashing onto crates and irritated passing merchants.
At the farthest edge, where the curve of the market met the high wall, a massive storage hall was built into the wall of the cities. Its upper floors bristled with wooden cranes jutting outward over the terraces, their ropes creaking as they lifted crates from one level to another.
Platform lifts clattered steadily up and down the heights, while cargo tramways systems stretched from end to end, busy lines connecting each floor of the bustling market like web of spider.
At the very bottom of this great hollow lay a massive open field, with stables lining its edges.
Beyond it rose a colossal gateway into the city, towering as high and wide as the Main Wall. From the market's heart, a single grand avenue stretched straight to the gate, forming a seamless path that connected Trade Central to the city's final threshold.
There, enormous transport beasts rested or lumbered about, their scales, fur, and stone hides dusted with snow. Some were small as horses, others vast as houses—breed to haul immense cargo across distant lands.
The children exchanged a glance—half relief, half bewilderment. Logan loosened his hold on his sister, whispering.
"…They're just looking."
Lilly peeked around him, her breath forming a small cloud. "At what?" she whispered back.
To the girl, they looked like travellers—perhaps tourists, or well-equipped adventurers come to glimpse the edge of the great trade hub. They stood by the stone fence, gazing beyond the city walls as though trying to satisfy some quiet curiosity.
She was too young to tell the difference between nobles, merchants, or those of real importance. To her, they were all the same—people dressed too finely, with more money than sense.
"I saw… something unusual," murmured the slender one among them, her voice soft yet clear beneath her hood. "Clerics… Lioris clerics," she added.
"Yes, my lady," another answered, his tone deferential. "The Crescent Clerics have set up a camp nearby—charity work, I believe."
The lady nodded her head slightly, her hood shifting with the motion. "And what do you think of it?"
"A show of kindness," the knight replied. "To spread the Moon Goddess's grace among the soon arriving merchants—and, through them, across all of Simix."
"As it should be," she said quietly. "For only the cold light of the Moon Goddess shines pure in the land of Sheen." Then, after a brief pause, she turned away. "Come. The barracks are not far."
"Yes, my lady."
Without another word, the four knights moved as one.
And then—they leapt.
All of them vaulted over the stone fence, dropping straight into the lower levels without hesitation. Their white cloaks flared like wings in the wind before vanishing from sight.
Lilly's breath caught. "Did you see that, Logan?! They jumped!"
Logan blinked, still staring at the fence. "They're knights, Lilly… that's just what they do."
"I've never seen anyone jump from that high!" she gasped, leaning over the edge to peer down. "Are they even human? Maybe… maybe they used flying magic!"
"Yeah, they could do that…" Logan murmured, half in awe and uninterested. "Knights are… something else."
Jun voice cut through their conversation. "Logan! you're still working for that Gustmill lady, right?"
He shook his head, rubbing his thumb over the tips of his index and middle fingers, then flicked the gesture downward. "No, Mother. No reason to."
The motion was quiet but clear—no coin owed.
Jun lips pressed thin. "So what will you do now?"
Logan gave a small shrug, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. "I don't know yet, Mother. Maybe I'll applies to be city guard. For now… being a hired hand isn't so bad."
"You're more than qualified for common labour, Logan," Jun said softly, her tone tinged with both pride and regret. "If only you'd finished your training… you could've been so much more than a guard."
Logan's expression softened. "Thank you, Mother," he said with a quiet smile. "I'll start looking soon. Something'll comes up."
Logan turned to his sister, mischief glinting in his eyes.
"Hey, Lilly," he called.
She looked up, suspicious. "What?"
He grinned. "Watch me."
Before either Lilly or their mother could react, Logan leapt over the edge of the stone fence.
"Logan!" Lilly scream split through the crisp morning air. She bolted to the edge, heart pounding, her breath clouding the cold air as she peered down.
And there—her eyes widened in disbelief. Her brother was not falling. He was running—his boots striking the slanted wall as though it were solid ground, each step sending a faint ripple of frost and dust into the air.
"Mother! MOTHER! He's—he's running on the wall!" Lilly shouted, pointing frantically.
Jun did not even look up from arranging her wares. She sighed, shaking her head. "Of course he is…" she muttered under her breath, a note of weary amusement slipping through.
With a faint shake of her head, Jun glanced over just in time to see Logan land neatly at the lower terrace, waving up at them with a grin on his face.
"That boy…" Jun sighed, pride and exasperation softening her voice. She lifted her gaze to the sky, where a bright wash of gold spilled across the clouds, warming the edges of the morning. "He's growing up too fast… and still just as reckless."
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she muttered under her breath, with a trace of annoyance,
"Must be that crazed girl's influence…"
The winter's breath may pierce and chill, But fortune bends to steadfast will.
A Long Queue
In a realm where void and darkness entwine, a single light flickers.
There, upon the edge where beginning and end become one, two figures sit in eternal discourse, their voices weaving through the silence of timelessness.
Kimmi peppered the old man with questions, asking everything—from his true name to his last, from the story of his birth to his end, from the ones he had loved to those he had hated. She asked it all, yet the answers she received was nothing.
The old man remembered some but never the answered.
Nothing.
Kimmi and the old Mender talk and talk—of life, of death, of what once was—until even the void itself seems to listen.
"How long have you waited, Grandpa? Or… have there been others who came here before me?" Kimmi asked, tilting her head with curiosity.
The old Mender lowered phial from his lips and exhaled, the sound like a sigh lost to eternity.
"Well?" Kimmi pressed, patient yet eager.
He studied her for a long moment, silver eyes dim and distant. "So inquisitive, little Kimmi… Ah, the scholar extraordinaire. No mystery too deep, no question too trivial." He sighed, the sound heavy, drifting him further into slumber.
"Of course! This is my first time here… I think… I believe…" Kimmi rambled, a bright smile lighting her face. "Grandpa seems so wise… and knows so many things…" She clearly did not know what she was saying, but she said it with hope for any piece of information.
Kimmi's thoughts tumbled over one another, questions spilling faster than she could speak. Every question—and every answer—mattered to her, each one offering a spark of hope and easing the weight of her uncertainties.
Asking questions was her way of grasping for something real, something steady, in a world that felt endless and groundless.
She could feel it—desperation, madness, slowly creeping, clouding her mind.
"Time holds no meaning in this place, little Kimmi. We do not live—we merely wait. As for others…" His silver eyes turn bright. "Yes. I've seen four souls pass through here. Including you."
Kimmi blinked, lifted her head. "Huh? Including me? What do you mean—you've seen me before?" She tried to recall, but nothing about this place stirred a memory. "What was I like? And the others?" she pressed on, questions tumbling out in a rush as she tried to piece together what the old man meant.
She knew that there was something wrong and odd with her memories.
"You were leading us," he said slowly, voice thick with yearning a memory. "Whether you were guiding us… or simply walking where your feet carried you, I cannot say. But we followed—into the abyss, into the dark, believing you knew the way. Then it came… a shadow. A small, swift little thing. It snatched you away. After that… we drifted apart. Lost again. Then met again… then lost once more." He sighed.
"I just passed by?" Kimmi mumbled, lowering her gaze. A flicker of realization passed through her mind. 'Is it true? had been here once before?'
Then her head snapped up, panic flaring. "No wait—someone snatched me?! You didn't even try to find me? Or save me?!"
"Hohoho…" The old man chuckled, though the sound trembled like a cracked bell. "At that time, this old soul was still grieving… still searching for answers that no longer mattered."
He smiled weakly.
"We are bound here until we are called—but remembering how you were taken gives me hope… that there may yet be an end to this eternal void." Then his voice grew serious. "And the folk that followed were not the kindest kind…" he warned.
He sighed, the sound thin and weary.
"But now that you are here…" His gaze drifted, growing distant and dim. "Hope feels closer than it has in ages… yet somehow, further still."
Kimmi blinked. "You don't even know what took me, do you?"
He shook his head. "No… though I prayed it was divine hands. An angel, perhaps the gods reached out to you..."
"Apparently not," Kimmi muttered. "Since I'm still here and the judgment's still pending."
"Sadly, yes. That means you could have died back then… and returned. And that thing may still be roaming somewhere in the darkness of the void." He gave a small nod, oddly confident. "A goblin! That's what I'd wager."
"I could have died?" Kimmi blinked, incredulous. "But you said we're already dead. How can dead—be more deader?"
"If we perish here, again…" he said, spreading his arms to the endless dark, "we simply return here—no matter how times death takes." His smirk twisted like a cracked mask.
Kimmi squinted at him. "You sound awfully sure about that, Grandpa. Have you, uh… die here… again?"
"Heh!" The old man's laugh came sharp and cracked. "Indeed I have, little Kimmi. I've been murdered here—in the void."
Kimmi froze. "Wha—what?! You mean you got snatch by that goblin too?!"
"No, no," he said with a dismissive wave.
"By another lost soul. She was among us—followed your lead, even. Ah, I remember her… a Barbararian, wild and rude." He shook his head slowly. "Can you believe it? She struck me down, believing it would draw the god of death's attention—or so her tongue proclaimed."
Kimmi frowned, her voice echoing faintly within the empty phial she'd just emptied. "She? So… she sacrificed you? Did it even work?" She asked it flatly, not particularly caring who they were.
"Apparently not," the old Mender replied, a hint of irritation curling through his tone. "The gods, it seems, do not heed every prayer—nor honour every offering. A waste of devotion! A failed pantheon!"
Kimmi giggled, tipping back the phial he'd given her earlier. "Grandpa! That sounds like heresy!" she said, grinning over the rim. "Careful, or the gods might listen yet!"
With a playful flick, she tossed the empty phial into the void. It shot away at first—swift as a arrow—then slowly lost its momentum, drifting weightlessly until it floated lazily around them.
The old Mender paid no mind to the empty phial drifting lazily above him.
Instead, he tilted the one in his hand, letting the liquid inside shimmer faintly in the dim light.
"But I won't speak ill of the God of Death," the old Mender murmured.
'You just did…!' Kimmi thought, baffled.
"Fairness to all, living and the dead alike." He sighed then, drifting into a quieter mumble Kimmi leaned in to hear more but barely grasped. "Yet still we linger… for what anger have stirred, for cycle to be halted?"
"What are you talking about, Graaandpaaa…?" Kimmi asked, brows furrowed. She knew nothing of gods or the old beliefs nor she care of it.
"Hmm? Oh—just an old man's muttering." He smiled gently, but the expression faded as quickly as it came. "At times, I envy the stone," he said softly.
"For it bears form without burden—endures without will. It was shaped by the divine hand once, and tasks for nothing more." He stared into the vase empty darkest void, as if waiting for answer.
Kimmi tilted her head, pity mixing with amusement. "Oh I get it… Sometimes I wish I were a Bucket. Or maybe a deep bottomless Well." She gave a small, awkward smile.
"Bucket?" The old Mender let out a surprised chuckle.
"Yeah! A bucket," Kimmi said proudly. "You can put lots of things in it—and carry it everywhere!"
The old Mender scratched his beard, as though trying to decide whether her logic was profound or completely ridiculous.
Before the silence could stretch too long, Kimmi cleared her throat.
"Um… did you ever meet them again? I mean—other people?" she asked softly.
"Few times than never again… few hundred more and not ever again… until now," he murmured, a faint, wistful smile tracing his weathered lips. "For you have returned, little Kimmi. Perhaps, if the gods still gaze upon this place, they may yet guide the rest to us."
"You sound like you're… waiting for me," Kimmi murmured, confused.
"Yes, and no" he chuckled—soft, brittle.
Then his gaze drifted away—silver eyes dimming, flickering like the last light of a dying lamp.
Kimmi nodded softly, her expression caught between wonder and unease. "Then… maybe we'll all meet the others again… soon," she murmured, her hand tugging at the old Menders satchel for more to drink.
He noticed Kimmi attempt and quietly he rummaged through his satchel. Then he drew out a few more phials and floated them gently toward her.
The old man lips curved into a faint, wistful smile. He lifted his own phial in reply.
"Until then," he said.
Kimmi raised the newly acquired phial. Together, they drank in silence—each sip echoing faintly through the hollow dark until both phials were empty.
Together they drank their fullest fill, each sip emptied yet lingering they still.
Limelight Cities, Night Ranger Barrack.
Loud noise spilled from the barracks—rowdy singing, drunken shouting, and the clatter of bottles. A foul stench drifted out into the winter air, souring even the cold. Mud coated the ground in thick patches, and broken crates, barrels, and shattered glass littered the entrance.
Even the metal bar sign of the barracks had been dragged down and laid across the mud so people could step on it.
It read, in deform shape: Night Ranger Depot.
The place was filthy—an insult to anything meant to resemble a barrack.
Outside the door, just beyond the sagging gate, stood a small group of cloaked knights. They faced the barracks in silence, waiting for someone—anyone—to greet them.
One knight, a woman clad in gleaming light armour beneath her cloak, grew increasingly agitated as the drunken merriment echoed from within.
"Shameful," she hissed, teeth clenched. "Shameful, all of them… A disgrace to our Goddess…"
Her hand darted to her waist, drawing a slender, curve-thin blade. She seemed ready to storm inside and cut down the entire building herself.
"My lady—please," one of the knights murmured urgently. "Calm yourself… Allow me to handle this."
High above, perched on the rooftops lining the street, city guards watched the cloaked group with narrowed eyes. Something about them—how quietly they moved, how well-armed they were—set off alarms.
Nobles traveling in disguised with escorts was not unusual.
But a cluster of hooded strangers—moving with the quiet precision and trained grace of seasoned knights—was something else entirely.
It was the mark of a hit squad.
The guards had already called for reinforcements. As more boots gathered silently upon the rooftops, squads began to circle around, closing off all escape routes. Three guards descended toward the group, while the rest positioned themselves behind, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.
"Halt!" one guard barked, hand on his weapon. "Do not move."
They approached cautiously, steps steady, eyes locked onto the cloaked knights.
"Remove your hoods," the lead guard ordered. "State your business. This facility is restricted. Only those with clearance may enter."
"Clearance?" the knight-lady repeated, her voice sharp with disdain. "Do these mongrels hold blessing to befoul sacred ground with their ticks and worms? Had you held true faith, you would know this place begs to be purged."
"Remove. Your. Hood," the guard repeated sharply—unmoved by her outrage. Around him, steel ringed as blades slid from their scabbards, drawn just slowly enough to make a warning.
"You dare—!"
One of the knights bristled, fury flaring as he reached for his weapon.
But a firm hand seized his shoulder, stopping him cold.
After a breath, the man stepped forward.
He raised both hands slowly, then reached up and pulled back his hood.
He was Seward, a paladin of Lioris—Hand of Lucia, the Moon Maiden.
"Ah… Paladin Seward," the guard exhaled, relief loosening his shoulders. At once, the tension dissolved; the men sheathed their blades. "My deepest apologies—from myself and my men—for being… difficult."
"Quite understandable, Mister…?" Seward smiled gently.
"Karp—Lieutenant Karp of the 217th Guard Division," he replied with a respectful nod.
"Of course, Lieutenant Karp. As you can see, we are here on business," Seward explained.
"Business with the Night Rangers?" Karp raised a brow. "If so, then you have come to the wrong place. Limelight Memoir Tower is where the respectable Night Rangers gather, along with their great leadership."
He paused, eyeing Seward armoured company.
"Unless," he added with a wry tilt of his head, "you intend to take the Night Ranger's Vow yourselves. If that is your intent… then yes, you've come to the right place. Though I must warn you—you may find your new colleagues somewhat unsavoury. They are, to put it kindly… a band of misfits."
Seward's brows drew tight.
"You mean to say scoundrels have taken roost in this barrack? And you, sworn guard and protectors of the city, allow it?" the knight-lady interjected sharply.
"If they were merely scoundrels," Karp replied evenly—now fully aware that this group belonged to the paladin order of Lioris, a respected institution within the city— "we would drag them to the deepest prison dungeon ourselves. But they are not merely that. They have taken the Vow of Night Ranger. And by law, oath-bound is oath-bound until their vow fulfilled."
"How can such madness be permitted?" Seward demanded.
"The Vow is not meant to be taken lightly…" the knight-lady muttered, shaking her head.
"And they did take it lightly… which leaves us powerless. It lies beyond our jurisdiction."
"Then who," Seward asked, disbelief threading his voice, "was so foolish as to admit such unworthy valour into the Night Rangers ranks?"
"That would be me."
The voice was old, dry, and carried a bite sharper than a blade. From the shadow of the alley limped an elderly woman, leaning on a cane of dull metal-blue hue. She wore a heavy sea-blue coat, a black cotton muffler wrapped snugly around her neck.
As she stepped into the light, more figures emerged behind her—men and women in weather-worn leather jackets, rope coils over their shoulders, climbing hooks jangling at their belts. They followed her like loyal shadows.
The guard straightened immediately. He knew exactly who she was.
"Finally, the gatekeeper arrives…" he murmured, then turned to Seward. "This woman is a Night Ranger—and one of the oldest still serving. She is Barbara Thurm."
Seward shifted his gaze toward his companion—the hooded knight lady—who still had hided her appearance.
"Do you know what you have done?" the armoured lady demanded.
"Oh, I do," Barbara Thurm replied evenly with polite bow. "Princess Lucia."
The name struck the air like a bell. Every guard stiffened at once as the name of royalty mention.
Barbara merely smiled. "But this is not a place for such discussions." She turned and began to walk, her cane tapping softly as she led them into the barracks compound.
The paladins hesitated. The ground was fouled, the air thick with stench—hardly a place fit for royal presence.
Lucia stepped forward without pause, following the old woman with calm resolve. One by one, the paladins fell in behind her.
With the tension eased and authority revealed, the remaining guards quickly dispersed, returning to their posts as the matter was deemed settled.
By curse and blessing, their oath holds tight, bound to their Goddess, defenders of the night.
The Void Creature
From the edge of the void, a ripple of shadow coiled upon itself—spinning faster, darker—until a small vortex bloomed in the gloom.
Alerting The old Mender and Kimmi.
It pulsing breathing, alive. Its warping the surrounding darkness into an eerie mien.
From the churning dark, a rift creak open and a thick, black liquid spilled forth—slow and heavy like tar breakthrough into their space. It gathered upon itself, trembling, forming limbs from the ooze—a reaching arm, a bent leg, a head without a face.
The Mender's smile faltered, drained by the sight of the grotesque intruder.
Kimmi breath hitched as the silence bent around it.
"What… what is that!?" she gasped, pointing toward the swirling bundle of monstrosity.
The old Mender squinted his eyes. "By all that's divine… I've never seen such a gruesome, sluggish thing…"
The creature crawled toward them, dragging its formless weight until it stood upright, featureless, yet watching. As the rift waned, the creature's body solidified, shadows tightening into something disturbingly humanoid.
Kimmi leaned close to the Mender, whispering, "Should we… attack? Or maybe pretend we're not here?"
"There is no fleeing from the void, little Kimmi," he murmured, gripping his staff tighter. "Perhaps… this is what we have waited for." His silvery eyes grow ever brighter.
Kimmi stared at the old man in disbelief, wanting to argue—but her legs barely functioned, for she did not understand how to walk or run without solid ground beneath her feet.
Kimmi forced a nervous grin. "Well… hello there little bundle of despair! You, uh, wanna sit with us?"
The black figure tilted its head, sinews of darkness twitching as it began to crawl closer—its gaze locked on Kimmi alone.
"It seems rather taken with you," the Mender mused grimly. His eyes narrowed, an old spark rekindling. "Ah… could it be? The creature that snatched you away before… yes, I remember now."
Kimmi face paled. "I don't wanna be snatched by a goblin creature, Grandpa!" She scrambled backward, clutching her tiny hands over her head.
The shadow creature lunged—only to halt as the Menders staff quarter between them. But it ignored him and pressed on toward Kimmi regardless. The old Mender swung again, driving the staff into the creature body, piercing its shadowy mass and sending it tumbling backward.
"O creature of the dark," he intoned, voice deep and steady. "Reveal thy purpose—art thou of divine birth or infernal making? For in this place where endings meet, none stand above another." the old Mender spoke in a language unknown to Kimmi.
The creature gave no answer. Its faceless head turned, tracking Kimmi every movement, like a beast entranced by hunger.
Kimmi peeked from behind the old mans large satchel, whispering, "Grandpa… I really don't like how it's looking at me…"
"I don't think this creature listens… And—I sense no malice," the old man murmured, squinting into the dark creature movement.
"I don't trust your any of your special senses, Grandpa… that thing gives me the creeps—there's definitely malice with just that!" Kimmi shot back, her tone sharp but reasonable.
The old Mender shuffled a few steps closer, his staff tapping faintly against his boots. The creature tilted its head, its shape wobbling like disturb water trying to remember how to be still. Then—without warning—it lunged again toward Kimmi.
But this time, the old Mender did not intervene—he let that small, writhing bundle of despair crawl its way toward Kimmi.
Kimmi gasped and squeezed her eyes shut, for she was very much immobilized—stuck in place.
Cold pressure coiled around her leg. For a moment she thought she had been pierced—but no pain came. Only slight weight. Then stillness.
Slowly, Kimmi dared to look. The black creature crouched before her, its dripping fingers clasped around her shin. It stared at her face with unknowingly fascination. Its dark, sticky liquid smeared her skin, staining it dirty.
"Curious dark creature…" the old Mender murmured under his breath. "Are you unharmed, little Kimmi?" he asked cautiously.
"What do you think? Absolutely not!" Kimmi snapped, glaring at him. "This thing probably has fifty different diseases!"
"I don't believe it means to harm you… at least, not yet," the old man replied quietly.
"What's that even supposed to mean?!" Kimmi snarled, then let out a long sigh. "No matter... But what am I supposed to do now?" she murmured, eyes fixed on the black thing clutching her leg.
"Well… perhaps try picking it up," the old Mender suggested calmly.
Kimmi eyes widened. "Are you serious?! No! What if it gets angry and lash me?" she hissed.
Before the old man could reply, the dark entity stirred—it slithered upward, its limbs reforming like liquid black, and coiled around Kimmi waist. She yelped, flailing helplessly as her balance gave way, and tumbled backward into the formless void.
The creature seized the chance to crawl over her, settling squarely on her back, its faceless gaze fixed upon her.
"Take it off me! Take it off me! Take it off me!" Kimmi cried frantically, wriggling like a trapped cat.
Though she could tell the thing was nearly weightless, she dared not touch it.
"Very well, very well…" the old Mender sighed, sounding far too amused for her liking.
He stooped down, scooped the shadowy creature into his hands with surprising gentleness, and placed it right beside her.
Kimmi froze, eyes wide. "Why would you put it there?! Take it faaaaar away from me!" she squeaked, scooting back in terror.
The old Mender chuckled, beard trembling with mirth. "Oh, little Kimmi, don't be so quick to judge. Perhaps this creature is like us—lost, wandering, and awaiting its trial." His tone softened, a strange warmth threading through his words—as though comforted by the idea of one more lost soul in this endless dark.
"Great! Fantastic!" Kimmi snapped, glaring at him. "Then keep it! Make it your pet."
The old man laughed outright this time, the sound echoing faintly into the void. "Ah, but it seems it has already chosen you, little Kimmi."
Kimmi groaned. "Of course it does! I got eaten by it before! You said so yourself!" she looks at the creature very suspiciously.
"Did I?" the old man murmured, as he tried to recall their earlier talk.
"Well… no," Kimmi admitted, "but you did say that thing snatch me!" At that, the creature perked up—then gave a slow, deliberate nod, as if agreeing with her.
"See?! Look! Look at that! It agreed!" Kimmi cried, eyes wide with horror. "How awful is that?!"
The old Menders face darkened.
She might be right—the creature had taken her once before—he saw it himself. For her to return to the void as he had—that meant she had died here.
His eyes narrowed, studying the shadowy being for any flicker of intent, any glimmer of malice.
The sluggish creature just sat there where he had placed it—seemingly innocent—its shapeless face turning between him and Kimmi.
The old Mender rummaged through his satchel and pulled out a small box and a bundle wrapped in brown paper. He placed them near the creature and waited.
The creature studied them briefly, yet seemed utterly unbothered.
The old man continued and unwrapped the paper, revealing dried meat of some kind. Then he opened the box—inside was a small handful of grain.
This time, the creature reached out, took a strip of meat, and pinched it between its soft deformed fingers. It lifted the morsel toward its head, where a wide mouth-shaped hollow appeared—and then it ate.
It even picked up a small piece and held it out toward Kimmi in a clumsy gesture of offering. Kimmi merely crossed her arms and leaned back, hissing softly at the creature in defiance.
Curious, the old man pulled out a small phial from his satchel and handed it over.
The creature accepted it, uncorked the lid, and drank without hesitation.
Kimmi, now free, stared in disbelief. "You're feeding it more?! You're crazy!"
"Not a green grazer… hmm, I suspected as much," the old man mused, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "This creature shows wit—and manners, no less. Perhaps it hails from the infernal realm… a demon, mayhap."
"You don't have to tell me that!" Kimmi yelped, pointing accusingly. "Look at it! It's terrifying and all!"
The creature drained the last drop, then hurled the phial toward the old Mender, who caught it effortlessly.
"But it drank sanctified water," the old man mused, his curiosity deepening. "And without a hint of struggle…"
Kimmi blinked, then gasped in delight. "You tried to poison it!" she exclaimed, leaning forward eagerly to see if the creature would burst into flames—or at least twitch.
The old Mender chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Not all strange or monstrous beings come from the infernal hells, little Kimmi," he said gently, still watching the creature. "Some are native to heaven."
"Heaven?! There's no creature like that up there—believe me!" Kimmi snapped back.
"Oh, dear little Kimmi," he sighed, shaking his head, "you must have been a very sheltered child."
Kimmi tried to recall if it was true, but nothing came to mind. She could not argue. She had never seen nor understood what the old Mender was trying to say, and she did not care for creatures of gospel that were never meant to be seen.
Meanwhile, the creature ate and drank happily, its gaze still switching between the old man and Kimmi.
"It seems to like it…" Kimmi muttered, her tone caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant pity as she watched the creature nibble contentedly.
"Yes. That's a good sign," the old Mender replied. "It means this creature might indeed be native to heaven. Demons cannot enjoy the pleasure of well-made food—they can taste only pain and suffering of other. So fear no longer, little Kimmi. This being was born without malice." He smiled faintly at her.
"I don't get it… but you said…" Kimmi tried to argue.
"Perhaps I was mistaken," the old man chuckled softly. "Perhaps it wasn't the same creature."
"That's not very convincing, Grandpaaa!" Kimmi shot back annoyingly.
The creature shifted slightly—inch by inch—toward Kimmi as they argued.
The old man noticed and gave it a sharp look. It froze instantly.
Kimmi followed his gaze and froze. "Hey—! It's moving closer!" She scrambled backward, glaring at the shadowy thing. "Stop it right there! Stayyyyyy!"
The creature tilted its head, gave a strange wiggle, and slithered forward anyway.
"I don't trust you one bit!" she hissed, hurling an empty phial at it.
The bottle bounced harmlessly off its shoulder, spinning into the void. Unbothered, the creature crept onward—matching her every step, closing in inch by inch.
Then, without warning, it lunged.
Kimmi barely had time to cover her head before the creature black mass came crashing toward her.
The old Mender reacted on instinct—he spun his staff through the air and struck the thing squarely along its side.
SPLASH!
The impact rang out like a staff hitting dense liquid, sending ripples through the creature tar-like body and flinging it a few feet back.
Yet it showed not the faintest flinch.
Instead, it gleefully resumed its crawl toward Kimmi, inching forward with the quiet purpose of a predator that has marked its prey.
The old Mender stepped between them, planting his staff firmly in the ground to block its path.
SPLASH!
"Still thy fury, O creature," he intoned, his voice carrying the weight of ages. "The past lies buried, and vengeance bears no fruit. All debts fade in the silence of the void—so rest, and find peace, for eternity awaits us all, and together we shall endure." He spoke as though to compel the creature.
The creature did not listen—it continued its relentless pursuit.
With a quick leap, it hurled itself again at Kimmi, arms spread wide like it meant to pluck her off the ground.
The old Mender reacted at once, swinging his staff.
The creature dodged—almost perfectly—but the old man twisted his wrist at the last instant, shifting the staff's angle with uncanny precision.
THWACK!
The blow landed square on the creature's head, sending a wobbling ripple through its tar-like body.
But remained utterly unharmed.
Then—
It scrunched its face—well, the part that might be a face—into something shockingly similar to a frown.
It continues,
Slowly, it rose onto two little feet, swaying like a drunk toddler. It marched forward with a stomp, pointing at the old man and as if scolding him for being rude.
And as it stomped, its form began to morph.
The thick tar rippled, tightening, solidifying.
Limbs refined.
Features sharpened.
Bit by bit, its body shifted into something disturbingly familiar.
A petite silhouette.
Soft outlines forming into—marshmallow like child.
The old Mender eyes widened.
Kimmi eyes began to twitch as she saw the creature new form.
"It's a mimic," The old Mender, breathed.
"I don't care!" Kimmi snapped, her voice cracking with panic as irritation flared at the sight of the creature. "Just keep hitting it!"
But the morphing continued.
The tar receded, dripping away like melting ink.
A curl of chestnut hair bounced free, still streaked with the blackest smears.
A dirty, fluffy pink coat and matching cap appeared.
Beneath it all, fair, pale skin emerged.
A pair of green eyes blinked open—a mirror of her, a perfect reflection of Kimmi.
The creature turned to her with a wide, beaming smile, bright, delighted, and unmistakably mischievous.
"Roa! Hom now!" it chirped at her, bouncing in place—then spun toward the old Mender and flailed its tiny arms wildly.
"Shooo! Shooo!" it demanded, as if scolding a stubborn old stray dog.
The old Mender gasped in reverence. "Look! It is a smaller you! Oh bless Great Lazarath… a creature of chaotic nature… truly astonishing!"
"I'm sure there'll be plenty of time to admire it later—preferably when it's dead! Now go, go, keep hitting it!" Kimmi hissed, also shooing him back into battle from a very safe distance.
Her gaze stayed to the creature and mind filled with many thoughts.
'It looks like me…'
Perfectly.
'Makes me uncomfortable…'
Snugly.
'Horrifying little thing…'
Dearly.
And somewhere—deep beneath the confusion, beneath the fear—something sealed within her, shifted.
A promise.
"Renoa…" she muttered weakly.
The moment the thought formed, agony detonated behind her eyes. It felt like a hundred needles driving into her skull in orderly rhythm. Each attempt to remember—to think—to recognize—only invited a new wave of pain that forced the thought back down, smothering it.
She clutched her head, staggering.
Even a mere glimpse of the creature sent a shock through her mind, as though she were barred from forming a single thought.
The creature looked worriedly at Kimmi when it saw her in pain.
"Roa! Hom now!" it commanded, pointing toward the distant void.
Both the old man and Kimmi followed its gesture, but all they saw was far wide darkness of the eternal void.
"Little Kimmi… it spoke…" the old mender murmured. "It's showing us a direction! Oh… finally, a new path…" he cried suddenly, joy breaking through his weariness.
"Lead us… please, lead us… to our true end… Let the cycle turn… it's what was promised…" he pleaded, tears streaming.
"Snap out of it, Grandpa!" Kimmi shouted, shocked by his sudden fervour. "Don't lose yourself! There's a monster right in front of us!"
Her body betrayed her. Pain ripped through her limbs, sharp and tense, leaving her paralyzed. She collapsed, numbness spreading like needle jolt her every nerve.
The old Mender knelt before the creature, murmuring silently as if praying.
The creature regarded the old man odd behaviour, fascinated.
"Ol kat! Stayyyy, Roa owing hom…" it chirped, patting the old man's head rapidly. Then its gaze drifted back to Kimmi, and it began moving toward her—almost skipping, as if delighted with itself.
It reached her and stretched out its small hands, trying to lift her.
"Hom!" it declared.
But Kimmi could barely respond, trapped in the storm of pain still tearing through her. She could only watch as the creature tugged and pulled, unable to move her even an inch.
With a soft sigh, it released her, settling beside her patiently.
Kimmi tried to crawl away, slow and shaky, the pain still messing with her nerves. Yet in the empty void, she barely moved at all—only drifting in the same spot. Fear prickled through her—if she pushed too hard or made too much noise, she might provoke the creature to be hostile.
And so, she moves slowly, painfully slowly.
But the creature already knew exactly what she was doing. It simply watched her with curious interest, as though she were some amusing wiggling worms.
"See? Look at us—besties! We chill, right…?" Kimmi said, forcing a shaky smile. "And if you get hungry, go eat something from the old man's bag… or, y'know… just eat the old man himself. I mean—look at me, I'm sick. I'm basically bad for your tummy."
"Auu…" the creature sighed, patting her head softly.
"Good… you understand…" Kimmi smiled through the pain.
The creature grabbed her left arm and hugged it close, peering at it like a prize.
It stared… and stared… and stared.
Then, almost cheerfully, it lifted the arm toward its mouth—and chomped.
"You little shiiit! I hope you get sick and die!" Kimmi snarled, furious that her attempt to persuade it had completely failed.
Though its teeth closed on her arm, the bite did not hurt at first—just a tiny pinch, like a cats playful nip.
But soon after, a shock of cold spread through her arm—sharp yet strangely intoxicating.
Pain rippled through her body, moving like molten currents from her head, down her spine, and concentrated into the very arm the creature bite.
It felt as though the creature was drawing every bit of pain out of her body through its bite. But beneath it all, a strange, bubbling urge to laugh rose up uncontrollably.
When the wave finally eased, her body responded again—but the creature held firm, nibbling and hugging her arm, unyielding.
Laughter erupted uncontrollably, manic and wild, mingled with the last sting of pain. She blinked, almost in dazed, at the creature, still nibbling, and at the old man, still kneeling and praying like a madman.
And then, deep within, she understood—the strange compulsion, the raw chaotic energy coursing through her.
"Oh… I get it now," she whispered to herself, laughter trembling on her lips. "We're all just… a bunch of lunatics."
As Kimmi laughter echoed through the void, a white spiral shimmered into existence above them, brightening the darkness. It spun faster and faster until it twisted itself into a pair of eyes—vast, pale, and unblinking—staring directly at them.
The old Mender staggered to his feet, arms spread wide.
"Yes! Take me!" he screamed, voice cracking with manic joy.
The glowing phials that once floated around him began drifting toward the spiral eyes. The pull grew stronger, dragging everything toward its centre.
"It's my turn! Bless thy, bless thy!" the old Mender cackled.
Kimmi barely noticed the creature still nibbling on her arm. She could not look away from the spiralling light. Hope—raw, desperate hope—pounded through her chest. Maybe this was the end.
Maybe she could finally leave this place.
'Leave?' She questions herself.
The word felt strange, almost hollow. Why think of leaving at all, when there might be nothing beyond this but death. And if death awaited her, was it truly an ending, or merely another turn in a cycle she did not yet understand.
The end, should be empty.
It should not think, should not wonder about opportunities. Yet here she was, conscious of the idea of ending, circling it with questions. If she could think about the end, then perhaps it was not an end at all.
End should mean nothing. No continuation. No after.
Kimmi lifted her gaze toward the vast, watching eyes in the void. 'Could something so immense, so terrifying, grant that kind of nothingness? Could it offer a true end?' She wondered.
Fwaaah—
The creature abruptly released her arm, its tiny body drifting toward the eyes.
"Hom…" it whispered, staring into the spiral.
Kimmi turned to it. She met its green eyes—her green eyes. It looked so much like her, like a child shaped from her memories, though she could not be sure.
"Who… what are you?" Kimmi asked.
"Hmmm… me?" The creature head tilting, noticing the question. Then it smiled, bright and proud. "Yuu… me, K-Ki… Kimmii!"
Kimmi was not exactly shocked that the creature called itself her. It was clearly mimicking her, pretending to be her. She just wondered why this creature seemed so drawn to her.
She knew herself well—or at least she thought she did. Yet there was nothing to prove who she truly was. Only names, only appearances—like the creature in front of her, mimicking others to be someone else to be themself.
"I'm Kimmi too…" she muttered.
The creature nodded, as if it understood.
Slowly, they were swallowed by the spiral eyes. The void shivered and dimmed.
Kimmi and the creature locked eyes, and slowly, those eyes blurred, melting like wet paint. They shifted—softening, widening—filling with warmth, sorrow, and love.
Kimmi blinked.
The green eyes have changed. They became sad, familiar—her mothers eyes.
She blinked again.
This time, the colours of her surroundings returned. She glanced left and right, noticing a place that felt strangely familiar. She tilted her head upward, meeting those green eyes once more.
Kimmi blinked twice to be sure.
She was staring at Catherine Anne Gustmill—her supposed mother. Catherine held her tightly, tears slipping down her cheeks. Kimmi leaned her head against her mothers chest and felt the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat, the warmth of her embrace—so soft, so real.
Now she was sure, she was no longer in the void of darkness.
She had returned.
Awakened from a nightmare she could barely grasp.
But something tugged at her senses—a warm sting on her arm.
Kimmi looked down. She was bleeding. Clear bite marks were imprinted on her skin. Something had bitten her.
In that instant, memories flush back in jagged flashes.
The eternal void.
The old Mender.
The Mimic.
The Spiral Eyes.
But each memory faded almost as soon as it surfaced, dissolving like mist. Only the pain remained sharp. When she touched the wound, the memories snapped back into focus—anchored by the sting.
Kimmi looked up at her worried mother.
I… I had the strangest dream, Cane… so strange it twisted my mind." she murmured, staring into Catherines eyes, dazed and half in shock.
Was the end a place, or merely a thought, and if all goes on, what has the end truly sought.